Restricted
by Rochellu
Summary: Artemis x Wally one-shot. Love is only a mind game, and poor Artemis doesn't know what to do. It's only come down to this because Wally keeps chasing the martian like a lost puppy and therefore makes him off-limits until he realizes his mistake.


**Thanks for all the reviews on my last Artemis x Wally fanfic! 8DD I'm so obsessed with this couple… but hopefully there'll be more fanfictions to hold us over an extra week without YJ. **

**This story is based on my point of view of a guy before, my point of view being Artemis's of course, and with some added Artemis pizzazz. ;DD But it's a bit angst-y. So. That's life. :c**

**So enjoy and please Review! ****:3**

Restricted. Off-limits. That's all he was. Although we had hated each other on sight, and had announced it as so, even though actions speak louder than words. I never took time to think of that line, seeming as it had never applied to me; now it apparently did. He would give that grin to only one other girl, the one he flirted with whenever fate allowed him. He was so oblivious to it all.

Anyone could complain I was oblivious as he was, trying to go after a guy who was already after another girl, who actually was after another guy, if that makes sense. But I was completely aware to reality. He went after that girl, not noticing the way she smiled at another, how she always declined his requests to go with him to a place, alone, when she had opportunity to go with the other boy, the one she was smitten for. She would be with her man one day, and this boy will inwardly beat himself up for not noticing sooner. For not being The One.

He was not all to blame, since that girl was unknowingly leading him on. She would laugh at his jokes, take the time to smile at him, grin when he was first to try a batch of her cookies, she's get in on his pranks and was completely innocent. She didn't even know he was interested in her.

But from someone of a seemingly-alien race, her looks had their downfalls, but overall, she was still absolutely gorgeous, unlike I ever have been. Her ruby hair was always fall the right way, parted correctly and shoulder-length. Her eyes were gentle and brown. She was older, more beautiful for her age, being older than I. Her skin was a very different shade than mine, but it was unblemished and spotless. She had the right amount of freckles, and when she smiled, little dimples barely stuck out in her cheeks, giving her an adorable appearance, full of innocence. And as if karma just wanted to slap me in the face, everyone preferred to be with her than they did with me. She was fun, kind, caring. She never yelled. She was sensitive, she was new to everything. I had my nice moments, but I yelled, I swore. For all they knew, was the anti-social, a punk, a rebel, violent.

But don't get me wrong; we'd always be friends. I love her as much as she loves me. We never talk as much as we should; I have always pondered over why we haven't. Maybe because no one understands me. No one knows what it's like when your past hurts you even to reminiscent on it. That pain's thorns don't hurt as bad after you'd felt them so many times before.

Her crush on the one guy is so obvious; the way she gets flustered and easily distracted. The boy she likes and the boy that like her share a brotherly love and hang out often. I wonder if she's ever brought up. Both of them are oblivious to where her feelings lay. That someday she'll be restricted too.

Just like me.

Happy endings don't come as easily as we'd hope they would. Sometimes I doubt they even exist. There sure isn't one scheduled for me anytime soon. And even though I have no idea why it ever had to be him, it was. He's the joker with a light sense of humor, one who can laugh at anything, anytime. My humor is the darker side of his, harder to crack, only able to be rubbed the right way, at only the right things.

Whenever he passes me, although we don't interact positively too much of the time, when he does, I have to fight to hold back the red tinge to my cheeks, try not to let my face flush, as hard as it is. But it's only for the best.

I loved stuffed animals. They couldn't backstab you, they couldn't blame you for anything, and they could only listen to you and would always have a silly, grinning expression to always be enjoyed. I loved some soft corny songs. Because the girl that had a song written and sang just for her, that one individual, had someone that loved her, desired her. I would always pretend that girl was me. I was like a chestnut; I had a hard, sharp outer shell that was always hard to peel, and if you weren't careful, you could hurt yourself and draw blood. But when you discarded the hard shell, there's no doubt about it; the center is always soft. He might think I love only rock and heavy metal music, that I have no sense of humor, and that I am so hateful I'd love to kick a puppy, but that's never true. He just can't discard my outer shell, my protection, my identity.

I hate this feeling that spirals through me and nearly makes my face flush when he actually shows a random act of kindness towards me. That feeling that makes me want to grin like an idiot, the one that fits like a puzzle piece with hate; the one called love.

It shoots up inside my chest again painfully as I watch him talking quietly to the girl, well, from the way he looks, he's flirting. She suddenly turns her head around and abandons the guy on the couch with a farewell, for the one that passes by. She never looked back on her friend, where she would've seen a crestfallen expression at not being able to finish a joke. I was tempted to go and reach out to him, to comfort him and tell him she doesn't want him. I don't.

I watch as he snaps his fingers in triumph and jumps the couch in a single bound, determined to impress her. I watch from the hallway, probably with a sad, sorry expression on my face too. I try not to be jealous of her and the attention she gets from him. But it's no use. He'll never know that whenever you're in public, with everyone, you simply have to put on a mask and you're a whole other person. Not the same one staring at the floor and stumbling to the end of the hallway, taking a left at the second to last door. You're the person that always has a comeback, ready to call anyone out for anything. Not the one that has wet eyes, salty with defeat. Your mask can differ from being sarcastic, from being a know-it-all, from being the one hiding the world, from being the one running from the world. It can even go as far as shooting everyone a fake smile every day, telling them you're alright, when it's quite obvious to yourself that's a lie, and will never be the truth.

I feel myself have my mask pulled off as I collapse onto an unmade bed, sprawled over cold sheets, feeling my bare skin be covered with goose bumps as I pull a soft, heavy pillow over my head. I feel my eyes let loose a sea as my chest heaves with silent sobs. My mascara runs, staining the sheets, burning my eyes. There's no denying that falling for someone only leads to heartbreaks and tears.

Especially when you fall for someone who can't peel your shell or take off your mask of lies. Especially when you're bound not to have a happy ending.

Especially when you fall for someone who will never feel the same way, one whom will always be nothing but restricted.


End file.
